


Crimson

by Kaz_of_Carinthia



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-04
Updated: 2012-03-04
Packaged: 2017-11-01 03:06:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 628
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/351249
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kaz_of_Carinthia/pseuds/Kaz_of_Carinthia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John finds a notebook.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Crimson

**Author's Note:**

> Implies knowledge of "A Scandal in Belgravia", Episode One/Season Two, Sherlock (BBC).
> 
> Inspired by legions of tremendously talented fanfic writers on Ao3 and elsewhere, as well as an irrational but enduring love of these characters.
> 
> Not beta-ed. Comments welcome. 
> 
> I do not, in any way, profit from the story and all creative rights to the characters belong to their original creators.

The notebook in his hands seems incongruous, far too feminine to belong to the distinctly male-flavoured chaos of 221B . Sherlock would not have chosen an item so indulgently luxurious – thick, unlined cream pages bound in blood-red silk – when a plain black leather notebook has always served him perfectly well. So, not Sherlock’s then.

Lost in thought, John stands at the window of the sitting room, concentration painting a small frown between his eyebrows, while he slowly turns the elegant volume between his neat, practical fingers.

John is a firm believer in trust. Loyalty too, but before all else: trust. He trusts his own instincts, he trusts Mrs. Hudson, he trusts Lestrade. The jury is still out on whether or not he trusts Sherlock.

“Sentiment“, Sherlock had sneered that very first day they met. John had paid attention, had filed away the disdain, and had taken great pains to secrete his keepsakes very carefully indeed. For John is, above all else, a believer in love. And no self-declared sociopathic flatmate – be they ever so brilliant – will cheapen John’s faith with cold, hard reason.

John is a medical man, a man of science. It should therefore come as no surprise that he believes in evolution. The progression from one state to another, higher state, brought about by experience, reflection, understanding, adaptation. He has witnessed his own evolution, from a depleted, weary husk of a man, to a friend, a partner, a protector fuelled by adrenaline and purpose.

He may not have the deductive capacity of the world’s only consulting detective, but John is patient, kind, and hopeful. John listens and watches, and then John waits. A haunting lament winds through the night hours, coaxed from the silken wood of a cherished violin, played so softly and only when Sherlock believes John to be asleep. It is repeated endlessly, as the weeks cycle by, imperceptibly changing from doleful minor keys reminiscent of a woman’s soft voice – _the_ woman’s voice – shifting calmly, patiently to lower tones in a major key, promising strength, endurance, loyalty. John tucks his chin to his chest to hide his smile when he recognises himself in the melody Sherlock’s violin sings when sleep eludes the slender detective.

An impossible puzzle, modern technology wrapped in the heartbreaking simplicity of want and need, a code elegantly solved at the last moment, a device cracked, a life sacrificed, a game won – was it not sentiment, John mused, that lead to a phone being carefully tucked into a drawer, rather than being taken apart and its constituent parts re-used in the latest experiment? Always free of dust, clearly often handled, it dwells amongst the debris of life and cases both solved and unsolved. Again time cycles on, and as courage, friendship, and adventures shared suffuse a melody with warmth, dust begins to gather on the elegant device.

Deep in thought, John’s fingertips gently brush the crimson fabric of the notebook in his hands.  Blood-red, it shimmers blackly, dangerously, in the creases, the silk slightly cool to the touch. Unbidden, the memory of a mouth, lipstick artfully applied, rises from the depths of John’s memories. This was a parting gift from the woman – “We’re not a couple”. “Yes, you are.” – having lain undiscovered among the piles of books for month after month.

With a slight shake of the head, John pulls himself back into the here and now. Fingers gently cradling the spine of the notebook, he lets it fall open randomly, then turns page after creamy page to reveal nothing but blank, unmarred paper.

That night, the sitting room fills with the joyous, brave sound of John’s melody. Eyes closed, John listens for a while, then bends his head back to the task of filling the pages with his love in response.

 


End file.
